That night, they swapped their previous French fare for Spanish food: roasted green peppers, ham, Spanish tortilla, and Manchego cheese. The wine flowed along with the conversation. Apparently, Sam had had a phone call with one of her old clients back at the hotel—a client whom she’d helped get off drugs a few years back.
“He wanted to tell me that he’s getting married,” Sam said, blushing as she tore at a slice of bread. “You know, when I first paired up with him, I really wasn’t sure if he would make it.”
Estelle squeezed her daughter’s wrist, overwhelmed with pride. Sometimes it still hurt her to remember how unsupportive she and Roland had been of Sam’s chosen career. Thinking of all the people Sam had helped over the years, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that Sam was the very best of the Colemans. Estelle would never say so to Charlie and Hilary, of course.
“I think I might like Madrid,” Sam beamed as they strolled the streets after dinner. “I think I might like everywhere wetravel together. It’s all been magical, Mom. Thanks for having me along.”
But the following evening,everything changed.
Estelle was at the bookstore, reading not only from her most recent release, but also from the few pages she’d typed the previous day. Her fans were captivated and pleased to be brought into her creative world prior to any agent or editor.
“This is an experiment,” Estelle told them, laughing. “Probably I’m not really allowed to do something like this. But, you know, what the heck? You only live once.”
When she finished reading the pages about the seventy-something widow, nearly every hand in the audience shot up. They had questions and responses.
Mostly, they were pleased that Estelle was writing about their own experiences—of being older women in the world who’d lost someone close.
After Estelle finished the Q&A session, she turned to hug Sam. But Sam was nowhere to be found. Worried, Estelle searched for the bookstore manager to see if she had answers.
“Your daughter stepped outside to call someone on the phone,” she explained.
Estelle explained to her fan base that she’d be right with them to sign their books. “One moment, please!” She hurried outside and around the corner to find Sam, hunched in the alleyway, speaking in low tones. Her face was scrunched with worry.
Estelle knew that something was wrong. She waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, trying to fathom what was going on at home. Who was injured? Who was dead? She tried to strikea deal with the Almighty, to remind him that they’d already lost Roland and couldn’t lose anyone else. But she knew that life didn’t work that way. Car accidents happened. Drownings.
Estelle was on the verge of a panic attack when Sam got off the phone. “I’m sorry I left like that,” Sam breathed. She looked unsteady.
“What happened?” Estelle demanded.
Sam took a breath. Estelle could hardly stand it.
“That was Darcy,” Sam said. “Apparently, Remy’s been diagnosed with acute hearing loss. She’s deaf? She’s deaf.” She burst into tears and threw her forehead onto Estelle’s shoulder.
Estelle stood with her arms around her daughter, heavy with the weight of what they knew. She thought of Darcy, sad and anxious and worried about her daughter. She thought of little Remy, who’d always been so quiet. Maybe she’d been deaf all along, or was becoming deaf as the days went on. Was it possible that none of them had paid enough attention?
She knew that Darcy was asking herself these questions, that she was putting herself through the proverbial wringer. Nobody could stop her. She was a mother, and she ached.
“I have to go back,” Sam said, sniffling as she stepped away from Estelle.
“Of course you do. We both do.” Estelle raised her chin.
“No.” Sam rubbed her eye makeup onto her sleeve. “You should see out the rest of the book tour. The books are selling like hotcakes, and you’re finally writing again. Those pages you read in there are outstanding, Mom. Please.” She took Estelle’s hand. “Tell me you’ll stay. It’s only a little while longer.” She squeezed Estelle’s hand harder. “Stay till Italy, at least.”
Estelle wondered what Sam was asking her to do. She wondered if she’d have the strength.
Back at the apartment that night, Sam booked a flight from Madrid to Boston for the following afternoon. It meant that,after that, Estelle had to carry on to Lisbon by herself. Estelle watched as Sam packed her belongings, feeling heavy with sorrow. She’d talked to Darcy on the phone by now, as well; Estelle had asked her if she should come back, too. Darcy had urged her to stay in Europe till the end of the tour. “At least until Italy,” she’d begged.
As though Rachelle would just pop up. As though Rachelle would come to Estelle’s reading and apologize and pretend nothing had ever come between them.
Estelle went to the airport with Sam the following morning. They hugged at departures, then separated. Estelle waited until Sam disappeared into security before getting back into the taxi and returning to the train station. Her train from Madrid to Lisbon was set to leave in half an hour, and she spent the remaining time with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, willing herself to be strong. But without Sam around, she suddenly felt very lonely in Europe. She willed every handsome seventy-something man around her to become Albert, to come over and say hello to her. But none of them was Albert. None of them knew her as the famous Estelle Coleman.
When Estelle reached Lisbon, she checked into her hotel and walked the gorgeous streets of a city that felt far older and far stranger than Madrid. It was sort of like San Francisco: tremendously hilly, with inclines that made her thighs burn. For dinner, she stepped into a fish restaurant and dined alone, drinking Vino Verde and eating sea bass and potatoes.
Usually, Estelle had a rule about what you could and couldn’t do while you were eating. Her most important rule was that you shouldn’t use your phone at the table. But now, so far from her family and all alone, she found herself pulling out her phone as she ate. Chewing the decadent, buttery fish, she watched herself type what she knew about him: Albert, New York City, sold company. She didn’t think she’d find him. She felt foolish.
But to her surprise, there was an article inThe Guardianabout the sale of a company, a company that had been devoted to financial planning for the elite. A photograph of Albert was attached. She read about the amount it had sold for—an incredible amount that put Roland’s money to shame—and felt her blood run cold. Albert was not the ordinary sort of wealthy. He was a billionaire.
Why was he spending any time with her? He could probably date supermodels less than half her age. He could probably have five different girlfriends, all around the world.
